


all the little glances

by thirteenohtwo



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27554320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirteenohtwo/pseuds/thirteenohtwo
Summary: Jester knows Beau by heart.
Relationships: Jester Lavorre/Beauregard Lionett
Comments: 3
Kudos: 71





	all the little glances

She's an artist.

Of course she would notice. That'd be like Caduceus not noticing… tea? Something like that. It'd be Fjord  _ not _ shouting Eldritch Blast when he fires off his magical blasts of energy. 

Jester is an artist and Beau?

Beau is a work of art.

A topknot tied tight with a pristine blue silk ribbon, against the heavy dark locks of her hair that Jester has seen tumble down towards her waist in early, groggy mornings. The pieces that still hang down? Framing a face sharper than any blade, never falling in those crystal blue eyes for too long, never long enough to distract or obscure, because Beau sees everything. Notes everything. Memorizes everything, to assess now or later.

Even the jewellery she wears is strategically chosen and placed. Giving off the impression of careless decisions or random aesthetic - only if you don't know  _ how _ to look. Another edge to her visage, another point, more sharpness to keep people back. Not drive them  _ away _ , Beau needs them close - to punch or question or study. But never close enough to touch her, to hit her. Catch her. Little bits of metal that catch sunlight and moonlight, a warning lost on most who find themselves gazing at the human.

It's all on purpose, everything she does, every choice she makes. When to wear her vestiges, when not to. Even  _ how _ she wears them - honestly, you'd think all the blue would make her stand out in a crowd, but she slips by unnoticed more often than not. Often enough that it has Jester reaching for her hand in the cities, something warm and calloused to hold onto, to keep Beau in her sights just a little longer. Long enough to catch that smirk, see the flash of blue, her eyes just over the edge of a collar popped high. No face to remember unless she wants you to, just a presence that may or may not have even been there in the first place.

Beau looks like a piece of art, and moves like one too.

Jester tries to get it down in her sketchbooks. Volumes full of one particular monk.

A particular monk too focused on trying to clear her mind, trying to meditate that she doesn't even notice a little blue tiefling gazing intently. Memorizing details and recreating them on paper. The taut muscles beneath brown skin, the slow easy breathing even as she holds a position that Jester's not even sure how she got into in the first place. 

The upside down scowl when she's hanging from rafters, listening to Veth nag her about taking a double watch in the bubble the previous night.  _ Monks need sleep too, you're not a god, you know! _

"I'm not  _ not _ a god, technically," Beau fires back, folding her arms across her abdomen to opposite hips. Her eyes fall shut but the scowl shifts into more of a smirk. "Right, Jes?"

"Right!" Jester chirps back, startled. She glances down to her book and back up again, in time to see the halfling roll her eyes. "Wait, what? Technically what?"

"Forget it," Veth grumbles. She hops up to flick the monk in the forehead, dodging the swipe of a fist. "Sleep more!"

Sometimes she wonders if Beau realizes it. If she sees herself the way Jester does, but the little Trickster has a feeling she already knows. One too many nights having caught Beau hiding her face against her knees, red-rimmed and watery eyes glaring at her when she asks what's wrong. The guilt she all but reaches for anytime anything goes wrong, how quick she is to blame herself before any others. Only ever seeing her mistakes, seeing the flaws her father insisted she had.

She can't see how fluidly she twirls amidst the chaos of a life or death fight. How smoothly her scarred hands knock blades aside, the flare of her ribbons and sash every time she flips out of the way of danger. The way the light of a magical blast catches and illuminates the blue of her eyes, or the intense, almost predatory glint of her grin. A battlelust that has even the toughest of enemies faltering before her. 

And if she can't see that, she definitely can't see the quieter moments. Can't see the grace with which she holds herself when offering her hand, pulling Caleb back up to his feet. Hands on his cheeks, gently rousing him to focus on her and not the charred remains of ambitious cutthroats. She can't see the way her jagged edges dull into something softer when she scans the rest of the group, scrutinizing any injury and sending the rough ones to Caduceus. 

And -  _ oh _ , she most definitely has  _ never _ , ever seen the little pout she gets when Jester drags her off just a little ways away from the others to look over the human's bumps and bruises. Jester is certain she'd run if she knew just how cute it is, watching Beau wiggle and squirm, insisting she's fine even as she slouches to one side, her ribs cracked on the other side. But Jester is glad she can't see the pout, because that means  _ she _ gets to see what happens after.

The way Beau's breath hitches when chilly blue fingers slide beneath her vest, feeling the heat of a nasty bruise already forming, blood pooling to the surface of the skin. The way Beau grunts and clenches her jaw, trying to tame the ticklish smile, her observant monk oblivious to the way her own hands find themselves planted on Jester's hips. 

It's no surprise, with those sharp eyes gazing ever so softly down into Jester's when she glances up. Like a silent request for permission to heal, and maybe that's why Beau let's her.  _ Goes _ to her for healing. Because she always asks, in the slower moments like this. The tap of her fingers against the bruise, just enough to make Beau hiss in pain and scoff, rolling her eyes a little. 

_ Gods _ , she is breathtaking. Jester's favourite…  _ favourite. _

"What are you looking at?" Beau wonders… grumbles at her. 

Even past the grime and sweat, the blood dripping from a gash in her eyebrow, Jester can see her brown cheeks darkening with a blush. The nervous flicker of her eyes as she searches the tiefling's, the way she catches the corner of her lip with her teeth for half a second before letting it go. Tiny, fast, almost imperceptible mannerisms that Jester is obsessed with discovering. 

"Nothing."

But just like the wild things from her books, Jester knows she can't bring too much attention to  _ her _ wild thing in front of her. Not without risking Beau flinching away, hiding. 

One day.

She'll show Beau her sketchbook.

"Just a big, bruised doofus who needs to stop throwing herself into the thick of it."

And maybe finally,  _ finally _ find the courage to tell her how she feels.


End file.
